Is A Four Letter Word
by Ruby Rosetta Red
Summary: Mitchell remembers. First in a series of stories dealing with four letter words. Sounds weird? Well first of all we're dealing with the subject of love. Chapter three now up. Rated T to be on the safe side. Please read and rate :
1. Chapter 1

**This i hope, will be a series of stories/drabbles about what, to Mitchell, is a four letter word. Beginning with love, i hope to visit other four letter words (and not necessarily _that_ one either but it may rear its ugly head). Set in the past and the present, all errors are my own. The characters of Being Human belong to Toby Whithouse and other associated peoples. I just love the show and especially writing about John Mitchell. As always, would love to hear your thoughts.**

* * *

**A Four Letter Word.**

_**Summer 1919...**_

_**Love.**_

Everything is new to him.

His new state is like a bright shiny penny and he's dazzled by it. He wants to go out and experience. He also wants to forget what he once was.

He used to be a soldier and a slave to its discipline.

Once upon a time.

Some of it still remains, just a trace. Slowly and irrevocably his rebirth is changing that part of him.

So many men died during that conflict, the war to end all wars.

_Until the next one._

He tries not to think about back home but of course he does, in the quite times when he isn't out learning. In his more peaceable moments he thinks about his mother back home in Ireland. He's an only child and its hard for him to think of her grieving for him, fallen in battle, listed as missing in action. It's better for her to grieve that loss instead of discovering the truth. She'll be praying for his eternal soul in heaven when in reality, his new existence should place him in the very depths of hell.

He remembers his ma's face. Her smiling brown eyes, the dark curls that she always struggles to contain in a proper manner. If he closes his eyes then he remembers her perfume, the soft subtle scent of rose water.

He's making this journey back against Herrick's explicit instructions, but he has to, he has to see her. Just one more time.

The influenza epidemic is rampant. It doesn't discriminate; it kills the young and the old equally. Its swift, stealthy and its victims don't realise that death is upon them until its too late. He recognises the parallels to vampirism all too clearly. He made his choice on that warm June day, to sacrifice himself for the sake of his men. He was a sergeant, a leader of men and he had to lead by example. It was the only thing he could do.

His first kill had been Arthur, his second in command.

The boat trip is rough and he struggles with sea sickness. They don't miss that extra deckhand the ship had employed; he's at the bottom of the Irish Sea somewhere, drained of blood. Herrick tells him that he still needs tutoring in the ways but his need to see his mother is much stronger.

He arrives back home under the cover of darkness and he's cautious. Everyone in the village knows that Sarah Mitchell lost her only son back in France so it wouldn't do to show up at the house in the middle of the day and scare the neighbours.

He stands in front of the front door and looks up at the dark windows. He takes a deep breath as he remembers the day that he left to go to war. For King and Country. He remembers the pride on his mother's face as he stood there in his uniform. How she's smiled and straightened the collar of the jacket. He can still feel her kiss on his cheek. He takes a deep breath and he takes the key out of his trouser pocket. He stares at it and wonders whether he'll still be able to enter. He lifts it to slot it into the lock and he freezes when the door opens.

"Well don't stand there all day" the voice drawls. He stares up at him in shock.

"How did…"

"How did I know? When I recruit, I like to know who and what I'm dealing with; it helps with any nasty surprises. I like to know these things"

"What did you tell them?" Them, meaning the neighbours who would be taking care of his mother, people who would not cope with the idea that John Mitchell was alive, well and…immortal.

"That I was your Commanding Officer, come to pay my respects. Then they all but tripped over themselves to be accommodating" he smiles but he's learned that there is never any real emotion behind those snake like eyes.

"A nice family you have here…" Mitchell takes an experimental step across the threshold.

"They're not my family…" he begins and then stops. Actually they are, of a kind. Not blood family but close enough. He's glad that he doesn't see them or vice versa.

"Good to know. You do know that you don't need permission to enter your own home don't you?" Herrick snaps at his young protégé in a tone that rankles with the younger man.

"She's…"

"Still hanging on…she hasn't got much…" his voice tapers off as Mitchell heads for the stairs.

* * *

The air in her room is heavy and oppressive. His new senses tell him that Herrick is right. Death is nearby.

She barely makes an impression in the wide bed. For so long there has only been the two of them. He doesn't remember who his father was, he was just never there. His ma had devoted her life to her only child, making money where possible, skivvying, washing, ironing and repairing other folks' clothes. She never aspired to anything, was happy with her lot. Slowly he approaches her bedside. He can hear each intake of breath rattle in her chest and she struggles with the effort. Curls of dark hair stick to her tired face and she gleams hotly with fever. Mitchell's eyes widen at her fragility. This is his ma, his beautiful ma. There's a chair left beside her bed and he slowly sinks down onto it.

He remembers when she would sit with him when he was feverish, her hand stroking his forehead slowly and lovingly. She'd hold him close and sing quietly to him or tell him fantastical stories of myths and legends. _Oh ma, be careful what you wish for_. It had comforted him then. Now he knows some of those legends are real, the ones from the shadows, talked about in fearful whispers. He knows because he is one.

He turns his head and sees the white enamel bowl on the bedside table. It contains a little water and there's a cloth beside it. He picks up the cloth and he dips it into the water. He looks back at her.

Her eyes slide open when she feels the cool cloth against her skin. He freezes when those eyes focus and fix on him. He waits for her recognition.

"Johnny…" Her voice is a hoarse, breathless whisper. He can't answer her; his throat is dry, choked up. He slips off the chair and falls to his knees as her hand comes up and her palm rests against his cheek. Emotion surges and his eyes fill. Tears slip out and over her fingers.

"My darlin' boy. Are you here for me?" she asks him and it takes him a second. He inhales sharply and then nods.

"Yeah Ma" he confesses softly and he wipes the tears away. He remembers her telling him that big boys don't cry.

"Well I'm ready…ready to be with my boy" she whispers, her gaze fixes lovingly on his face. His face changes as fat tears swell again.

"I don't want you to be scared…you'll be going to a much better place" he tells her, his voice struggling to hold back the sobs. He feels her thumb feebly brush the new tears away.

"Will I see you there Johnny? Will you be waitin' for me?" He just nods, he can't speak. One day. He hopes.

"I love you ma" he murmurs.

She slips away before dawn. He sees her standing beside the bed and she looks like how he remembers her. They exchange a look before the door beckons. He watches her leave with a broken heart.

* * *

"I've got something to show you" Annie looks at Mitchell in mild surprise. He's been very quiet recently, more quiet than usual.

"Oh…" she closes her magazine, interested. Mitchell isn't forthcoming on most things. She watches him roll off his bed and head towards the dressing table. He opens one of the drawers and she sees him take out a small battered cigar box. It's ancient, battered and much repaired but so obviously precious. The surface is faded and worn in parts.

"What's that?" she enquires. He looks at the box for a moment before looking back at her. She watches him cross the room and sit down on the bed beside her. He opens the box and her eyes widen when she sees the photographs. They're old, post card type pictures from the turn of the nineteenth century. Her mouth goes dry. He picks them out and he stares at them for a moment. He hands one of them to Annie and she looks at it. Her eyes widen in recognition.

"Oh my God. That's you!" she exclaims in surprise. She looks at him and he just nods.

"My ma saved for months so that she could have a photo of us together. I was six... nearly seven" Annie looks back down at the stiffly formal shot.

"That's your mum?" she gently traces the smiling face.

"Yeah, that's my ma…Sarah.." She looks at him again.

"You look like her" A brief smile drifts across his face.

"So people used to tell me. I never knew my Da; he fathered me, married her and then left" Annie watched him. Then he shrugs.

"There was just me and my Ma…"

"Against the world, huh?" She looks down at the little boy with Mitchell's eyes. He's not smiling, in fact he looks distrustful, and those curls, even back then he had curls that no comb could ever contain. She stole another look at him.

"Hey. I'm in my Sunday best, told to be on my best behaviour and I'm six. You try smiling when you're also being told not to move and let's see what you can do" he informs her with a wry smile. He passes over the second picture, of just his mother. The edges are worn and creased with age.

"They've come everywhere with you?" He nods. He'd taken them from her room after she'd died. He'd had to leave before the neighbours arrived and discovered her and him for that matter. He'd watched her burial from a distance, the plain wooden box lowered into the unmarked grave witnessed by only a handful of mourners.

"What happened to your mum?" Annie asks and he snaps back to the present with a blink.

"She died of the Spanish flu, it was virulent after the war, killed millions" she hands the pictures back to him and he stares down at them for a moment or two.

"You loved her" He looks at her.

He nods.


	2. Love: Josie

**Second chapter in this series. This is my interpretation of Mitchell and Josie's relationship. He tells George about her briefly in S2 Ep 5 and when we're first introduced to her back in the first series, we get the impression that these two shared a deep bond, a real love. All errors are my own. I'm hoping my laptop problems are resolved soon, thanks to my husband, i can post my stuff from the desktop so i'm hoping to have a chapter of 'Driven Under' to share soon. With this chapter, all errors are my own. Please let me know your thoughts. Many thanks. **

* * *

**Love : Josie.**

_**Christmas, 1969.**_

"Are you sure you won't come with me?" Mitchell looks into her blue eyes and he smiles.

"Yes I'm sure" he answers and pretends not to notice her pout.

"But its _Christmas_!" she tries again.

"Josie…I'm not going to change my mind" he tells her and she sighs.

"What are you going to do instead?" she asks. Actually that's a very good question, what _is_ he going to do? He shrugs.

"Watch telly, listen to some music"_, ignore my craving, try not to eat someone and hope there isn't a knock on the door._

"Well if you do, keep the volume down, the last time Mrs Cartwright threatened to have us evicted" she reminds him and watches him roll his eyes.

"Aww, that old bat…" she puts a finger over his mouth, silencing him.

"That old _bat_ is our landlady and we must be nice to her" she chides him and grins at the twinkle in his eye all the same. She takes her hand away and trails it down over his chin, down his throat, down…down to the centre of his chest and stops there.

"My parents won't mind one extra for dinner and we could leave on Christmas Night" she begins again and he groans quietly.

"Josie! I just don't…think it would be a very good idea" he replies. He grasps her wrists and moves them from his chest.

"I'd mind having to sleep on the sofa while you're tucked up in your bed upstairs and there's always someone around at Christmas with a camera…one shot and it's all over" he tells her, lowering her hands down to around her hips.

"If we leave Christmas Night there'd be no sleeping on the sofa" she cajoles and he has to give it to her, she's tenacious. His frown becomes darker. He moves away.

"I just can't take the risk...just…no I can't"

_ All those hearts beating, all that blood rushing just beneath the surface. I don't think I'm strong enough yet._

* * *

It's Christmas Eve and the radio stations are alternating between chart and seasonal stuff. Usually it goes in one ear and out the other for Mitchell, he has no preferences. This is his first Christmas sober, away from Herrick and with Josie. It makes him nervous and he's on edge. He's never done this before. She's spending the day with her family, with her parents and her aunts and uncles. How domestic. He hasn't met her family, how would they react to the fact that their daughter's boyfriend is a blood sucking monstrosity and over seventy years old? Probably not very well. This is the problem with having a relationship, with being with someone who isn't like him; the family. He hasn't had much in the way of family, just his mother and she's long gone. He has no brothers or sisters that he's aware of so as far as he's concerned, problem solved.

With Josie, it's different, she has a life, a whole family who love her and cherish her. She has loving protective parents who worry constantly about her and how she's coping in 'The Smoke'. He knows that her father will take one look at him and decide that he's nowhere near good enough for his precious daughter and he agrees, he isn't and probably never will be but Josie thinks he's good enough for her and that's enough. He's come against such resistance in the past, in his life before the war. He remembers wondering about it to Josie, wondering whether it's down to his lack of a father in his life. Josie had smiled at him and assured him that it was nothing to do with that, paternity had nothing to do with it at all. One look into those brown eyes of his, a moment of that irresistible Irish twinkle and he would be a threat to any father. Mitchell has to take her word at that one.

His thoughts are distracted by Josie. She forever distracts him, from craving, from darkness, by just being her. She's wearing a warm winter coat in a vivid season holly red, a cute matching Tam o'Shanter perched on her dark head. There's an overnight bag by her feet.

"I could be back tomorrow night? My dad will bring me" she suggests.

"You haven't been to see your parents for ages, stay the night, I'll be fine" he assures her but she's not sure.

"Maybe I can visit over New Year instead" she hedges but he shakes his head.

"I'll be _fine_" he whispers and he presses a kiss on her forehead, missing her freshly lipsticked mouth.

"Santa left you something under the tree by the way. Don't you dare open it til tomorrow" she warns him lightly. He widens his eyes angelically as if to say _who me?_

"Which reminds me…" he takes a small gift wrapped box from his shirt pocket and he places it in her hands, smiling softly.

"Same goes" he tells her and she smiles impishly, popping the box into her handbag. She stands on tiptoes and kisses him; she draws back and smiles up at him, wiping her lipstick from his mouth. He urges her to the door.

"Go or you never will" he half laughs at her expression of longing.

"I'll be back on Boxing Night" she promises.

"I know…"

"You'll really be okay?"

"I really will be" he promises and she opens the door.

"Mitchell…"

"Josie…please…" he urges and he watches her slip through the door, bag in hand. She smiles at him again and lifts a hand in farewell. Then she's gone. He goes to the window and waits for her to emerge. When she does, she automatically looks up and he raises a hand to wave. She does the same and then gets into the awaiting cab. After a moment it drives off.

* * *

There's beer in the fridge and enough food in the cupboard to feed several armies. He takes out a bottle of beer and goes into the living room. It's quiet without her and that's when he feels his weakest, his most vulnerable. When it's quiet, he's more susceptible to temptation; he's vulnerable to his thoughts. He's been doing very well in recent months. Josie is forever in his corner, believing him, encouraging him and loving him. Even after how they'd met. Herrick had wanted him to kill her but he had seen something in her that had made him wonder, had made him curious and so he didn't. She hadn't been afraid of him, she had told him so. She didn't like Herrick then.

No one likes Herrick, he's enjoys the fear and unease that his presence brings. Maybe that's it. Josie sees something in Mitchell, she sees beyond the demon.

The beer bottle is quickly emptied and alone in the flat he feels a bit like a marble in a jam jar. He stands by the window and watches people walking by in the street below. They're heading home to loved ones, arms filled with Christmas gifts, hearts filled with love. Their faces are alight with promise and he feels the ache of it in his heart. It makes him think of his ma. He remembers their simple holiday, Midnight Mass, then a bath in front of a blazing fire before a simple supper and bed. He remembers hanging his stocking on the mantelpiece, his young heart filled with childish dreams of excitement. He remembers a restless night's sleep. In the cold morning there would be a little stocking waiting for him containing an orange, nuts, a small bar of chocolate, a hand painted lead soldier and a shiny bright shilling, an absolute fortune. They'd go to church and then spend the rare day together. His ma didn't have to rush off to work then and they'd eat, play games and just be happy. Why can't it be that simple again?

* * *

Her bed feels vast without her in it. He lies on his back and stares up at the ceiling. She should be there now, spending time with her family. He sighs and rolls onto his side. He can hear music playing in one of the other flats. He knows who all the neighbours are and knows the music belongs to the girls sharing the top flat, Lisa and Suzie. He sees them regularly when he leaves for work in the morning, giggling, flirtatious and sweet. He knows Suzie is interested in him but he's not, he has Josie.

He sits up. His stomach is aching again and he doesn't know whether it's from the beer or whether it's a craving. He looks up at the ceiling. He can still hear the music. He could go upstairs, bring some alcohol, he'd be welcome and they could have their own Christmas party. He closes his eyes. Parties have a tendency to go very, very wrong where he's concerned. He grunts as a cramp grips his belly and he gets out of bed and stumbles towards the bathroom.

He can feel the perspiration popping out on his forehead. He sits on the side of the bath and curls his arms around his stomach and he tries to take slow, deep breaths. He can do this. He's promised Josie that he'll be okay without her and he doesn't want to fail her. He sits and continues to breathe. He can almost imagine what their blood will taste like on his lips. He scrunches his eyes closed. He stands up and he sways, all of a sudden feeling light headed. He pulls his fingers through his hair. He leaves the bathroom and heads back to the bedroom. He flicks on a lamp and heads for his jeans and shirt that he's discarded from earlier. He dresses. Just one drink, he'll have just one drink. That's all he needs, just one nip.

He freezes when he hears the scratch of a key in the lock and he stands up again. He goes out into the passage, every sense on alert, wondering who it could be.

Josie is carefully closing the door and she flinches when she turns and sees him standing there. Her hand comes up to her chest.

"Oh you startled me!" she breathes and he just stares at her in amazement.

"Don't be mad at me…I know you said you'd be okay…but…" she walks towards him.

"I got to my parents house and everyone was having such a good time but all I could think about was how you were doing without me" she stares up at him with wide blue eyes. She then frowns when she realises he's dressed but his feet are bare.

"Are you just going to bed? It's really late" His brain has stuttered to a halt. What does he tell her? Does he tell her that he was planning on paying her neighbours a visit? He sighs quietly.

"Yeah" he admits huskily. He's feeling calmer now, more in control.

"I told my mum and dad that I'll see them in the New Year instead. It's too soon for you Mitchell, alone in the city with all of this…temptation around you" she shakes her head.

"It's your first Christmas since you left Herrick and you shouldn't be by yourself" she puts her hands on his chest. He just stares into her blue eyes.

"I love you" he whispers to her and her eyes warm and sparkle in pleased surprise. She smiles and stands on tiptoe. She presses a kiss on his mouth and he feels his heart leap.

"Love you too Mitchell" she whispers back.


	3. Love: Requiem

**This was going to be a one shot in memory of a great character. I was pretty shaken up when i wrote this and the death of John Mitchell broke my heart. So this will be the one and only time i shall address this issue, in my mind and in my heart, he's not gone. In my mind he still lives but this burst out of me one morning last week which was tough because my laptop was experiencing serious issues so i couldn't write it down immediately. They seem to be rectified (so far, so good!) so i'm posting this from my laptop. This time it's not Mitchell that remembers, it's those who meant the most to him who remember _him._ All errors are my own, thoughts as always, appreciated and many thanks to those of you who've reviewed, you know who you are ;)**

* * *

**Love: Requiem**

_He should be here._

George stares down at the little scrunched up face surrounded in pink blankets. This is all that he can think about, that he should be here, sharing in this moment. He should be here to help him celebrate, to wet her head. They should be sitting in a pub together somewhere, getting pissed; he should be here helping him to stay calm and focussed.

_He should be here._

His daughter should have an Uncle Mitchell. Emotion swells in his heart. He blinks it back. Instead he stares down at his little girl's face and marvels at the miracle of her.

"_I'm doing this because I love you"_

"_I know"_

His voice is so clear in his head that for a moment he thinks that he's beside him, but he's not. He's somewhere better, somewhere happier. He won't believe that Mitchell simply ceased to exist when he pushed that stake through his heart. The three of them had watched as he gave them that smile, telling them that it was okay. It was just the briefest tilt of his lips but his eyes had looked so _happy. _He has to believe that he'd saved him from a fate worse than what that Wyndham vampire had promised him. They had crowded around him as he'd faded to dust, as if to catch him as he fell.

* * *

Nina watches him hold their daughter and she knows that he misses him. He still cries sometimes, when he thinks that she's asleep. She watches his shoulders tremble and shake in the dark, hears him struggle to keep his grief under control. He goes through the motions of existence but he misses his friend so, so much. She had promised Mitchell that she would take care of him and as her pregnancy had progressed with frightening speed, there have been times when she's wondered if she was enough. She sees how his eyes search each room, as if seeking him out. How his blue eyes dim when he realises yet again that he's not there. Those first few days afterwards, they all were numb, all were in pain but it had been tempered by the fact that Mitchell was no longer suffering, that he was happy, that what had happened, how it had happened, had been _his_ choice.

Annie stands in the doorway of his room and listens to the silence. Her eyes pick out the busy blue and green patterned wall paper, the crumpled navy blue bedding and she sees his jacket tossed across the dressing table stool, thrown forgotten during one of his lightning visits. She looks at the bed. How many times has she sat and watched him toss and turn, when he thought that he was alone? He'd been going through so much torment, so much pain and guilt and no one had seen until it was too late, way too late.

* * *

"_You were the love of my long life"_

His passionately whispered words bring tears to her eyes. She doesn't think that she has anything left in her but she's wrong. Christ, she misses him so much. She wants to see his face once more, hear his voice, feel his touch and she won't ever again. He's gone, in the ether. She takes a breath and takes that first step in his room and she pauses. She listens, as if expecting to see him appear and ask her what the matter is. She looks around but there's nothing of him here, it's just a room, an empty room. She goes to his jacket and she picks it up. It's heavy and incredibly worn. She lifts it to her face and she can smell cigarette smoke, a faded drift of something, like deodorant or aftershave, his hair. It clings to it and she wraps the jacket around her mid section and she feels the pain swell anew.

"Annie?" George's voice is soft, questioning and she turns her head. His eyes are sympathetic and he comes towards her and just wraps his arms around her.

"It was the right thing to do, wasn't it?" she asks him, her voice muffled by his shirt. He draws back and looks into her swollen brown eyes. He smiles gently.

"It was. He's happier now" he tells her quietly.

"Then why do I feel like hell? Why can't I stop crying? Why do I wish that he was right here telling me not to be so soft?" she demands, anger roughening her voice.

"Because you loved him, because you …l_ove…_ him" he tells her. The fight goes out of her as quickly as it enters and her shoulders slump.

"I do" she admits. She thought that she had loved Owen back then, before and just after she'd died but what she feels for Mitchell, what she will _always_ feel for Mitchell is something completely different. In comparison, Owen was just a flirtation.

"You should take a look around his room, see if there's anything of his that you'd like to keep" George suggests and she looks mildly horror struck at the thought.

"To remember him by Annie"

"He left a lot of stuff behind in Bristol but…" she moves away from George and he watches her go to the dressing table and open a drawer. He frowns when he watches her take out a battered old cigar box. She glances at him as she goes back to him and then sits down on the bottom of the bed.

"What's that?" he asks, following suit. She manages a small, mysterious smile.

"Something Mitchell showed to me a few months ago…" he watches her open it and his eyes widen when he sees what's inside.

His rings and a pendant on a long chain rest on top of a couple of photograph. Annie picks them up and she looks down at them. Then she hands them to him and his eyes widen when he recognises one of the photograph's subjects.

"Oh my God…is that…is that…_Mitchell?_" he exclaims and she nods in reply.

"Taken in 1900. That's his mother" she points to the other subject and George sighs quietly.

"Wow…just…" he shakes his head briefly.

"She died during an outbreak of the Spanish flu in 1919, he went back to Ireland to see her" she tells him and his mouth drops open at the revelation.

"He never talked about his family, or even about his life before he was recruited" he looks down at the pictures again. Annie has picked up the jewellery, the rings are far too big for her slender fingers and she threads the silver chain through them, the pendant glittering in the palm of her hand. She closes her hand around them and she feels closer to him somehow. She remembers him wearing them; she remembers seeing them glint in the light.

"What was his mother's name?" George asks her and she looks at him.

"Sarah" she tells him and he nods. He hands the pictures back.

"You should keep those, the jewellery too, he'd want you to have them" she looks down at them again. She sighs quietly and nods. Carefully she replaces everything and closes the box lid.

* * *

George puts the boxes in the attic. The signs of Herrick's activities are all gone, wiped clean and the room smells of air freshener and Flash liquid. The floor is clear and tidy now, the bed stripped to its mattress. He places the boxes on top of it and he looks at them for a little while.

He goes back downstairs and he sees Nina in the living room, cradling their daughter. Annie hovers nearby, cups of tea in her hands. Nina looks up at him and the enquiry goes unspoken. He just nods.

"You do know that we're going to have to think of a name for her?" George then announces. Nina looks down at her face and a slight smile crosses her own. Month after month of agonising transformations had them fearing that their child couldn't possibly survive so she remained unnamed, even when the midwife announced her healthy arrival. Nina then glances at Annie and a look of understanding passes between them.

"You're absolutely right, we can't keep calling her baby can we, and so I was thinking…how about we call her…Sarah?" George's heart almost stops in his chest at Nina's suggestion. He crosses the room and scoops the baby out of her arms and looks down at her face again.

"Sarah" he whispers, feeling tears thicken in his throat. It's then that she opens her eyes and fixes her gaze on his face. Those eyes are milky blue and unfocussed but they're set on his face. He nods as he feels a tear escape.

"I think Sarah is a perfect name" he whispers.


End file.
